


Physician

by Island_of_Reil



Category: The Beacon at Alexandria (Gillian Bradshaw), The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Broken Bones, Gen, Obscene Latin poetry, Snakes, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Bunn's fic <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/539419">"Splendid Things Gleam in the Dust,"</a> this fic begins after hers ends. En route from Antinoöpolis, Marcus and Esca stop in Alexandria to board a ship back to Britain. But Esca is injured in a street accident, and they are taken to the clinic of a well-known physician. That physician is Chariton of Ephesus — in truth, Charis, a woman who has been practicing medicine in the guise of a eunuch for many years. This story is told through her eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Physician

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Splendid Things Gleam in the Dust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/539419) by [bunn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/pseuds/bunn). 



It was mid-to-late afternoon when I returned from a house call in the Rhakotis, at the other end of the city. I had long before become inured to the heat, but still it was a relief to turn north off the Canopic Way toward the neighbourhood in the Delta quarter where Aristarchos and I have our _iatreion_. The press of humanity around me, with its attendant sounds and smells, thinned more and more, and ever more trees stood above me to shelter me from the sun.

As I entered our street, I spied Aristarchos's tall, lean figure standing in our doorway. He tracked my approach with grave eyes.

"What's wrong, Aristion?" I asked as I drew up to him. 

"You have a new patient, Chariton." Only inside our bed-chamber does he call me _Charis_ or _Charition_ , and then, only softly.

"I always have new patients." I squeezed his shoulder briefly; an affectionate gesture that gives little away to prying eyes. "You couldn't have taken this one on yourself?"

"I think not," he said. "I think this one will require the skills that Quintus taught you."

The new patient stood with a companion in my _iatreion_. The companion, taller and broader-built, was Roman by the look of him. He stood with his arm around the smaller, slighter one, who held his own right hand before him and stared at it in disbelief. If my own right hand had been a smashed, bloody, swelling wreck, I suppose I'd have stared at it so, too, at least until the shock had worn off.

Erasistratus and Herophilos had come to stand on either side of them before I could react. "Bring this man up to the surgery and prepare him for me," I said sharply. "Give him some willow bark and — for the love of Asklepios — as much opium as won't kill him."

The Roman dropped his arm from around his companion and spoke something to him in a language unknown to me. The smaller man nodded and let my attendants guide him away.

Then the Roman turned to me. "You are the _iatros_ here?" he snapped, in Greek.

It is often easier to assume an imperious manner than to admit one's fears for one's ill or injured kin or friend. This man would need me to be calm as much as his companion would. Perhaps even more so.

"I am," I said. "Chariton of Amida and Ephesus. What happened to your man?" 

"We were walking along the Canopic Way when a horse took fright and broke from its reins. It knocked him down and trod on his hand. A wagon-driver in the crowd offered to bring us here — he said you saved his mother's life once."

He closed his eyes tightly. Then he opened them again and, with fierce and readily apparent effort, schooled his features and calmed his voice.

"You'll help him, _Iatrê_?"

"I will tend to his hand myself," I said calmly. "I have experience setting smaller bones."

"It is his right hand, _Iatrê_. Do you think you can preserve it?"

"I think I can," I said. "Much will depend on your man and how well he heeds physician's orders, but I believe I can do my part well enough."

"Then he'll heed physician's orders," the Roman said harshly. "Whether he wishes to or not."

I bade him sit, and I sat beside him. Chryseis quickly brought us two cups — mostly water, for me, and mostly wine, for him. She had been with me long enough to know this without being told.

I entered the surgery a short time later. Sunlight still poured through the great south-facing window, making the room hot but, more importantly, bright — more so than I could achieve with lamps. Herophilos was finishing the laying out of my implements, which he had just finished boiling, on a linen-covered tray. Erasistratus stood behind the main table; an empty bowl sat on the kist behind him. The steamy air was laced with a sweet, incense-like smell, counterpointing the sourness of vinegar that also hung in it.

My patient was already laid out on the table, his tunic stripped from him, a length of cloth bound tightly round his right upper arm. On a smaller, slightly higher table alongside the first, Erasistratus had laid the man's injured hand and wrapped it in a vinegar-soaked cloth. Despite the elevation and compression, a fair amount of blood had seeped into the cloth.

I assessed him briefly. No more than four-and-twenty, I guessed. He lay still, breathing steadily. All colour was washed out of his face, but given the circumstances this was to be expected.

As I had it from his companion, this man was a Briton; perhaps that would explain the strange blue lines on his breast and arm. _Not a Gaul_ , I told myself, yet the pale cloud of hair against the linen brought back an unpleasant memory. When I gently pried open one eyelid, so did the sharp blue of the iris that stared out at me, its pupil the smallest possible speck in the centre.

I pushed the unbidden thoughts to the back of my mind, as one must do in this situation. As one must also do, I had begun to abstract the bone and flesh and blood before my eyes from him to whom it belonged. Otherwise I would feel the injury, and my work, in my own wrist and hand, and I would be no good to him whatsoever.

From the tray I picked up the lancet, still slightly damp from its plunge into boiling water. Herophilos was at my elbow without my bidding, as he had been so many times before, a forceps with curved claws in each hand.

There was an art to the pace of this, to making an incision precisely but not with excessive slowness that might cause torment. The lancet bit deep into one side of the wrist, and before the vessel beneath the skin could spurt more blood I clamped it between the curved claws of one forceps. Other side of wrist, other incision, other vessel, other clamp. Steadily, steadily, yet with alacrity.

The man on the table stirred, and Erasistratus braced his hands on the narrow shoulders, but there was no more movement, not then.

The flow of blood thus staunched, I examined the injured hand. As bad as it looked and undoubtedly felt, a quick perusal indicated two finger-bones with clean breaks and two that had had fragments struck off them by the horse's hoof, and the wound did not seem full of fragments. The thumb was, for a mercy, untouched. As I had said to the Roman, the greatest challenge would be persuading a young and apparently hale man not to tax his mending hand.

I picked up a third forceps and began to probe gently. 

The sharp-angled face tightened in pain. Both attendants tensed in readiness. As I gently extracted the first tiny white splinter, he loosed a quiet moan, and his shoulders trembled under Erasistratus's hands. My attendant leaned harder into him, but still he did not writhe or thrash as I feared he might.

I am an _iatros_ , not truly a _cheirourgós_. I had insisted Quintus train me in the basics in case I ever had need of them. But I did not see how one could open up patients day after day and not be affected by the agony it caused them. Some did not even bother with the juice of the poppy, I knew, but ordered the patient to bear up "like a man." My gorge did not rise at the sight or smell of blood or pus or viscera, but I still struggled to suppress a too-keen empathy when I caused pain, even if it were to the greater good.

Altogether I removed five bone-splinters. Despite conscientious probing aided by a few small incisions in the hand itself, there seemed to be no more than that. I exchanged the forceps for a bone-lever and — working more quickly this time — shifted the severed and chipped bones back into their proper positions. The patient's breath came more sharply now, and Erasistratus held steady, but Herophilos did not need to add his own weight.

At last it was time to take up thread and needle. I keep sutures in a jar of vinegar to discourage corruption; the dampness also makes for easier threading. I reverted to the slower, more conscientious pace of earlier as I closed up the skin laid open by either the hoof or my lancet. At intervals, I glanced up at Herophilos, who daubed the exposed flesh liberally with the wound-salve that guarded against putrefaction. Finally, I wound a bandage tightly about the entire hand to stabilise it and to keep it clean.

It was done, and I released a breath as though I'd held it since I'd first seen the two men awaiting my return.

"You may go," I said to the attendants as I washed my hands in a small basin on the kist behind the surgery table. "I must write my notes. In a little while you can return to bring him to a cubiculum to rest." In the meantime, other patients might come in; and, if not, there were always tasks to be done.

Across from the surgery table I keep a small desk, with ink and papyrus on hand. Hippocrates bids us observe and record everything, symptoms and treatment alike; I find it easier to do so while all the details are fresh, then copy them over if need be at a later, more peaceful moment. I sat at the desk and began to scratch out all I remembered, from my first glance at the patient in the atrium to the bandaging of his hand.

I was nearly done when a sound brought my head up sharply. My patient had come awake, to some degree, and had raised himself up on his elbows.

He was blinking, looking about him. He would still be muzzy-headed, but his wits seemed to be trying to surface from beneath, and the twist of his mouth gave me a fleeting impression of frustration. When he remembered more, I thought with sympathy, the frustration would crest.

"How are you feeling?" I asked quietly in Latin. His companion had told me he had no Greek.

His head whipped round in my direction. The blue eyes were still beclouded; nonetheless they fixed on me, and I could see him trying to assess me.

"I… " His eyelids fluttered, then opened again. And then the damned fool attempted to swing himself off the table — unthinkingly using his right hand to lever himself.

I loosed a string of curses that would have impressed Quintus and was off the stool, round my desk, and by the side of my patient almost before his face went white again and he bared his teeth in agony. The effort not to cry out seemed to cost him dearly. I could not catch him before he fell, but he was able to break his fall by flinging his arms round my waist, the left hand braced against my hip.

I grasped him beneath the arms. His lean muscularity made him heavier than he looked, but I returned him onto the table without much difficulty. I unwound the bandage to see if my work were spoilt, but all seemed intact — the pain he had just unwittingly caused himself was, likely, his saviour in this, and mine.

"Listen to me," I said emphatically as I wrapped his hand again. "Your right hand was nearly destroyed today. I just spent the last few hours putting it back together. Do _not_ move from that table until my attendants come to bring you to a resting-room, and, once they do so, _stay put_ , and do _not_ tax your hand any further. Do you understand me?"

His breath rasped in and out of his lungs as he nodded his assent in the Western manner.

" _Intellego, Domina._ "

A cold breeze seemed to touch the back of my neck in that airless, steam-soaked room. I tried to ignore it; he was confused, with good reasons.

_"Non sum 'Domina.' Mihi nomen est Chariton, Chariton Amidae et Ephesi."_

He simply looked at me and shook his head and smiled weakly. How did there remain so much cunning in those eyes, in spite of pain and poppy and the coming awake in an unfamiliar place?

 _"Minime. Non est 'Chariton.' Fortasse…_ Charis _?"_

And in the next heartbeat, he recited — in Greek, perfectly pronounced if strongly accented and spoken with an air of unreality, the uncanny eyes still fast on my face — _"Charis of the shining veil saw her as she came forward,/she, the lovely goddess the renowned strong-armed one had married."_

He may as well have told me that I avoided him like a fearful fawn — as another did half my lifetime before, fingers digging into my breasts, laughing at me as I struggled to get away and promising to speak to my father about me. I was cold all over now; I thought my heart was going to leap out of my chest like a stag chased by hounds. Or, perhaps, a doe, like Horace's Chloe.

But I didn't run, not this time. 

My hands seized his shoulders and pinned him hard to the table. I fixed his gaze with mine, just as hard, and he shrank from it with widening eyes.

"If you betray me to _anyone_ — even your Roman friend — I will arrange to have every bone in your right hand rebroken," I hissed, my nose nearly touching his. "And I will reset it again myself, during which time there will be a sudden, mysterious, and total lack of opium in this _iatreion_. If I am prevented from keeping the oath I swore, I may as well break it completely. Do you understand me, _Britannice_?"

His face was again bloodless, with a tinge of green around his lips; his pupils were again infinitesimal specks in the blue.

"I understand," he said once more, in a hoarse whisper.

I released him brusquely, letting my eyes continue to burn into him, my breath coming harshly. Then I spun on my heel and stalked from the surgery.

Shortly thereafter I huddled on the chill, dirty floor of a tiny outbuilding behind the _iatreion_ , the door latched behind me. My entire body was wrapped around the old, chipped chamber-pot into which I was being wretchedly ill.

A piece of irony, it was. I was no longer a young maiden of gentle birth, about to be sold off to a powerful man who delighted in the agonies of others. I was powerful in my own right. In the eyes of Alexandria, I _was_ a man, of sorts.

The man I had just threatened was in _my_ power. He was badly hurt, he was drugged, he was half-naked, he was in a place where he knew not a soul but his Roman companion. Eunuchs were likely not an ordinary sight to him. He had put his hand to my hip, its curve hidden beneath my chiton, only to break his fall. Women in his own country, I had heard, enjoyed freedoms that Greek women of any country could not dream of. 

He could have had no idea of the import of the words he said to me.

And I, who had never been violent in my life, who still quailed to cause another pain, had threatened him with a bloody retaliation that was a shame upon me, a disgrace to the god I served and the oath I swore by — and an act I could never have brought myself to carry out.

_While I continue to keep this Oath unviolated, may it be granted to me to enjoy life and the practise of the art, respected by all men, in all times. But should I trespass and violate this Oath, may the reverse be my lot._

I wiped my mouth on a piece of linen. 

Somewhere, I could hear Festinus laughing at me.

 

I did not return to his side the rest of the day or night. I could examine him on the morrow, and in the meanwhile my attendants could wash him, feed him, empty his chamber-pot, and make sure he did not worsen.

I confided in Aristarchos in the privacy of our bed-chamber, one floor above the _iatreion_. He pressed against me, not to cajole me into love-making that plainly held no appeal for me this evening, but to comfort me with the form and the warmth of his body.

"What ails you, Charis? Did the surgery not go well?"

I sighed. "The surgery went very well, _agapi̱tê mou_. It was what came afterward that did not go well." And I told him all. 

He stiffened when I repeated the threat I had made, but then he said, "You must have been well and truly frightened. It is entirely unlike you, and never could I see you actually doing such a thing."

"Aristion," I whispered. "What shall I do?"

"What shall you do, Charition?" He stroked my hair. "Your beloved physician recommends you apologise to the man come morning; he won't heal easily if he fears you. I don't know his character, but you've saved his hand; that must count for something with him, I imagine. In any case, you are a physician of renown, and he is a foreigner and a barbarian. He would not be the first such to imagine a woman where a eunuch stood, and even his Roman friend would tell him as much."

I could not relax entirely, not with this burden on my conscience, but much of my tension flowed out of me, and I turned to kiss Aristarchos on the brow and cheeks. I had not expected to enjoy an excellent night's sleep, and in fact I did not enjoy such, but I rested sufficiently for the purposes of the next day.

In many _iatreia_ , patients lie in simple rows of cots. I had hired a carpenter several years before to partition the space for cots into cubicula with thin walls, and a glazier to set a small window in each cubiculum. Sunlight and, when I deem it wise, fresh air are helpful to healing, as are the greater quiet and privacy; the walls also help contain contagions.

In his cubiculum, the Briton — Esca, his name was, I remembered — lay on the cot, staring up at the ceiling without expression, the bed-clothes covering him from the waist down. The window above him faced east, and a circle of morning light lay over his head and throat, illuminating his sharp features and picking out droplets of sweat on his brow and temples. His left arm was behind his head, his right arm out to his side. A bowl of barley broth and crust of bread, hardly touched, lay on a small table between the door and the cot.

" _Ave_ , Esca," I said softly. But his head had already turned at the sound of my foot-falls. His eyes narrowed, and his shoulders tensed; his left hand curled into a fist.

I suspected that this one — quick of mind and body, inked with what Erasistratus had told me were the marks of a British warrior — did not fear much in life. But his regard of me, and the sudden rapidity of the pulse in his throat, told me that he was, at the very least, wary of me. Me, who was sworn to make him whole.

I pulled up a stool alongside the bed and sat, and I looked him in the eye. I owed him no less.

"Yesterday I spoke words to you that I should never have thought, let alone spoken," I said, quietly but firmly. "I spoke them in terror, but that excuses nothing. You are my patient, my responsibility, and you were in no condition to understand the full meaning of what you said." 

I paused. "I do not presume to ask your forgiveness, but I do wish to make this apology for the sake of my own honour and in keeping with the oath I have taken. If you wish for a different physician to treat you, my second Aristarchos is an excellent one, or I can refer your companion to another healer in the city."

The hard look in his eyes tempered somewhat, but they did not leave my face, and he did not relax entirely. In a grave voice that did not brook the possibility of the answer being none of his concern, he asked bluntly, "How came you to this life?"

I stared at him for a moment, thinking that I had seen no more than the barest hints of this man's wits last night, and even less of his self-possession. I could refuse to answer his question, I knew, but at the price of his trust, and in turn it could cost him his right hand.

"I have wanted to heal since I was a small child," I said. "I devoured the books of Hippocrates and other renowned physicians. I practised, as it were, on ailing animals and people, and I opened the carcasses of dead animals to see how they were made. No scolding for behaving unlike a young lady of gentle birth could deter me."

His expression did not change. No horror, no condemnation, just an expectant look bidding me continue, which I did.

"When I was sixteen — I am thirty now — I ran away from an unwanted marriage. My father would have given me to a powerful man with a taste for cruelty. I decided I didn't wish to marry at all, but would seek to learn and practise medicine instead. As women are barred therefrom, I thought to disguise myself as a eunuch, and I fled from Ephesus to Alexandria. I found an excellent tutor in the Jewish quarter, and then a famous anatomist of Rome took me for his pupil during the few years he spent working and teaching here. As for the rest?" I shrugged. "I studied, I proved myself, and I built a reputation, just as a man would do."

"What would happen to you were your secret uncovered?" he asked.

"I would no longer be allowed to practise medicine," I said flatly. "I would no longer be considered the head of this household. Aristarchos would marry me — we began as friends, then partners in medicine. He discovered my secret when I lay quite ill, and he felt betrayed for a short while, but then we became lovers. We've since become as much like man and wife as is possible for us. 

"But… I would cease to be anything more than his property in the eyes of Alexandrian society and law."

The wariness was nearly gone by now, but anger remained in his eyes. He let out a barely audible breath and said acerbically, "I imagine I could have answered that question for myself. The Greeks pen their women up even more tightly than the Romans do."

My immediate reaction was indignation — what physicians, what philosophers had Britannia produced, before she was put under the yoke of Rome, and even afterward? — but I bit it back. He spoke no more than the truth.

He expelled another breath, more sharply this time. "I could not so destroy the life of the… the one who has likely saved my right hand. Apology accepted, _Domin...e_." The corner of his mouth quirked at his own near-slip.

It was my turn to exhale with feeling.

"Here, we say not _Domine_ but _Kyriê_. And—" I had been about to say, _I am not your lord nor your master_ , but I did not think I could bear the unspoken rejoinder that would hang in the air. Instead I said, "For a term of address, _Iatrê_ will do."

"'Physician'?" 

My eyebrows rose. "I thought you had no Greek," I said. 

Unexpectedly, he grinned at me. "I don't speak it fluently, no, but I've been in Egypt for weeks now. When a tongue is spoken all about you for a while, you'll pick up bits of it. And it has its similarities with Latin, which has eased the learning somewhat for me." 

"Tell me, what tavern-keeper or dock-worker taught you that bit of Homer you quoted me?" 

The insouciant look fled from his eyes. I had briefly considered saying _tavern-keeper or dock-worker or whore_ , but his next words made me glad I hadn't. 

"It's a favourite of the Legate Hieronimianus's daughter," he said quietly. He did not elaborate, but I had an inkling that the verse was likely not the legate's daughter's only favourite.

And he and his companion were not bound south again for Antinoöpolis, but north for Britannia.

I let the melancholy moment pass, and then I said quietly, "I didn't visit you solely to tender my apology. You should be examined, not only your hand but the rest of you, to ascertain that you didn't take ill from your injury."

He frowned. "I don't feel feverish."

"That is not always an accurate indicator. I would examine you, but if this sits ill with you for… whatever reason, I will ask Aristarchos to do so instead."

He shook his head. "No. You are my physician. What do you require of me?"

"Well, first, can you sit up — perhaps, this time, without leaning on your right hand?"

He pulled a rueful smile and pushed himself up on his left one. I pulled the stool closer to the cot.

"How have you slept?"

"Soundly, for the greater part. The opium your man gave me yesterday doesn't make for pleasant dreams, however."

"This is true, and I am sorry for it," I said, as I pressed my palm to his damp forehead. No worrisome heat seemed to burn beneath the skin.

"Have you been able to eat?"

"Not much. Between the heat, the drug, and the pain, I have little appetite." The words were spoken matter-of-factly; he sought no sympathy.

"Passing water, defecating… no trouble with any of that?"

His face reddened slightly but his expression did not change. "No."

"Good," I said briefly. "I wish to check your eyes now; sit still." He did, although a look of discomfort crossed his face as I gently pulled up one lid, then the other. The pupils were normal-sized now, the whites clear.

"Tilt your head back a bit."

He did, and I pressed my fingertips before and behind his ears, then under his chin, and then against the sides of his neck. Nothing seemed swollen. "Lift your arms," I said, and when he did, I similarly pressed into the downy hollows beneath them. They too seemed unaffected.

I bade him lower his arms, and I looked him in the eye again. "I would listen to your lungs and heart. You collided with a horse and were thrown violently to the paving-stones yesterday before it stepped on your hand. It would be wise to ascertain as best as possible that your internal organs do not bleed. This would require me to put my ear to your breast, then to your back."

He blinked at me, then nodded his assent, though he looked about as comfortable with this proposal as he did with my examination of his eyes.

"As I listen," I told him, "breathe deeply and steadily through your nose, as you would while at your ease." And I dropped my head and pressed my ear against his chest.

His heartbeat was a bit fast — unease, almost certainly, which was my own damned fault — but there was nothing amiss with it, medically. I listened to the air enter and leave his lungs. No wheezing, no crackling, nothing to indicate fluid where it should not be.

I straightened and said, "Slide forward a bit on the cot, please."

He obeyed. I moved around to the back of him and heard my breath hiss out of me sharply. His shoulders stiffened; he knew what I saw. 

I have seen any number of slaves, former and present, with scored backs. The scars on this man's back were old. But whip welts anger me whenever I see them on a patient, and they who had taken their displeasure out on Esca had done so quite thoroughly. 

"Did the Roman who brought you here do this to you?" I said in a tight, hard voice.

 _"No."_ The reply was vehement, almost angry, and with the ring of truth.

I let another brief moment go by. Then I pressed my ear against the smooth pink marks. Again, I heard the steady thump and counter-thump, and air moving into and out of his lungs untroubled.

"Lie flat," I said. He did. Another physician might have laid an ear against his abdomen, but my instincts strongly warned me from this. Instead I pressed my hands all about it, keeping my touch firm enough not to tickle, light enough not to hurt. Making a small hammer of the side of my right hand, I gently percussed the taut expanse of flesh. As with everything else but the injured hand, here he seemed whole, too.

"Rest," I said. "We are done for the moment. Except… I would ask you to fill this, when next the opportunity arises." I lay a small, clear flask with a rounded bottom and a thin neck on the bed-side table.

He stared at it, then at me. His gaze was hooded again.

"Why?"

"I ask patients to do so because it is one way to check the balance of their humours. In your case, I would also be scrutinising it for blood."

A bit of tension seemed to leave him. I belatedly realized that, in light of last night's threat, my request could easily have been interpreted as a demand to provide me with means of working the black arts against him.

Before taking my leave, I said, "I would keep you here a few more days, I think."

His eyes went wide in alarm. "It is early autumn, _Iatrê_. My companion and I cannot wait too long to take sail back to Britannia."

"Yes, he told me you had planned to sail out yesterday. I had one of my attendants inquire at the Harbour of Good Return after I worked on your hand. There is another ship that will leave four days from now. I cannot compel you and your companion to remain, but it would be wise."

He sighed. "When Aquila has heard this advice, he will insist that we so remain. I don't see that I will have a choice in the matter, _Iatrê_."

I thought for a moment. "Are you lettered?"

"I am. In Latin, anyway, not Greek."

"I can have an attendant bring you something to read, to pass the time."

He smiled sardonically. "I look forward to whatever treatise you select for me on the cauterisation of open wounds or the lancing of pustules. I imagine it will be fascinating reading; perhaps it will whet my appetite."

I suppressed my own smile. "Medical volumes are not the only books I have in my home. I will ask Herophilos to fetch you a suitable one."

 

I did just that when Herophilos brought me the full urine-flask later in the day. The colour was darker than I would have liked — I would give Esca more honey-water to drink, maybe a bit of watered wine — but it was well within the range of normality, without a hint of blood. Nor did I see any particles or cloudiness.

The next morning, I asked Herophilos if he had brought Esca the book, and he smiled, glad to have served me well.

"I did, _Kyriê_. The book that _Kyrios_ Quintus left with you? It is by a Roman poet, is it not? I thought perhaps he would like to read that."

My jaw fell open.

"Martial? You lent him Quintus's copy of _Martial?_ "

Herophilos looked fearful. "Should I not have, _Kyriê_? I am very sorry."

I clapped a hand to my face. I should have had Erasistratus select a volume instead; he was lettered well in Greek and reasonably so in Latin. Herophilos was barely lettered in Greek and not at all in Latin.

"You've met Quintus, Herophilos." I peered at him from between my fingers. "Perhaps you can imagine the … sort of verse he has a taste for?"

Herophilos' dark face went even darker in consternation, and he clapped his own hands to it. "Oh, great Artemis."

"Would that this were my gravest concern. It's merely awkward. You have done no knowing wrong here, Herophilos," I tried to reassure him.

"I am very sorry, _Kyriê_ ," he nonetheless repeated, sounding deeply ashamed.

The book lay on the bed-side table when I entered the cubiculum. This time, when Esca turned his head to me, his grin was immediate — and so wide I thought it would snap his cheekbones.

"I must thank you for the loan of your book, _Iatrê_. It is _much_ more entertaining than I could have hoped for!"

My face burned. "It was lent to me, myself. My teacher in anatomy left it here on his last visit."

"And quite a treatise on anatomy it is," came the cheerful response; he was taking obvious delight in my discomfort. "Worth many lectures at your Mouseion on gynaecology alone, I don't doubt. Among other subjects."

I ignored that. "Herophilos does not read Latin. I would not have selected that book for you."

"Well, then, I am glad you asked Herophilos to pick it out for me."

"Sit up," I said sharply. He caught the loss of my patience and tried to suppress his smile as he obeyed, though he did so rather poorly.

I put him through the same paces as yesterday, checking his forehead and eyes, pressing into his temples and neck and axillae to check for untoward swellings, auscultating his heart and lungs, percussing his abdomen, asking him how he ate and slept and voided. Whether because I had repaired trust with him or because Martial had left him in a jocose mood, he seemed much more at his ease today.

By the time I had finished, though he still seemed well disposed toward me, his amusement had faded and he fixed me with a serious look.

"I owe you a great deal, _Iatrê_."

"Other than my fee, you owe me nothing," I said quietly.

A flash of temper. "My right hand is not 'nothing.'"

"Well and good; and neither is my oath," I replied, with equal asperity. "I do not live in a hovel, treating only the penniless and taking only the occasional goat or loaf of bread in payment, but neither do I live in the Broucheion, attending two or three wealthy patients a week and spending the rest of the time in a _peristýlio_ with my nose buried in treatises. I could have led the latter life had I chosen to. That is not what I wanted. I wish to serve people, _all_ manner of people, by healing them."

His anger had faded as quickly as it had arisen, and he regarded me thoughtfully.

"I am not wealthy, _Iatrê_ , nor is my friend Aquila, but I believe we can well afford a gift to you above and beyond the fees you charge for the repair of a broken hand. I expect he will pay a visit later today, and we will speak of such a gift. Please, do us the honour of accepting it. Put it toward the treatment of the penniless." His eyes narrowed. "They seem to be in abundant supply here."

"They are not in Britannia?" I asked.

"Oh, Britannia has its poor, of a certainty. But they don't starve in the shadows of gilded palaces, whose inhabitants step over them in the streets."

I could say no more to this caustic observation than I could to what he had said the day before about the strictures placed on Greek women. I had spent half my life in Alexandria; I had attended many wretched patients in tenements that crawled with vermin, trying to patch up what could not be fixed without regular meals, air that did not reek of harbour sewage, and masters who would permit so much as a day of bed-rest. 

Britannia, even under Rome, might not have the resources to save all of her ill and poor. Alexandria did, and that she did not do so was her shame.

"I will accept your generosity," I said. "I wonder if I might convince you to join me tomorrow morning at the Asklepieion as well. Perhaps we could buy a cock somewhere in the Tetrapylon, for a sacrifice."

"The Asklep…?"

"Asklepieion. The Temple of Asklepios," I explained. "It is a holy place for physicians and for patients."

"I thought you wished me to remain abed for a few more days."

"I wish to keep you under my observation. Except in the unlikely event that we encounter another runaway horse, you should be fine to walk with me to the Temple in the early morning and back."

He blinked. "I think I should be as well."

Something else occurred to me. "You don't fear serpents, do you?"

The question startled him. "No, not at all."

"Good." I smiled. "I'll have Herophilos find you a chiton that fits you."

 

Aristarchos and I rose in the grey hours before the next dawn, as was our wont. As I washed my face and hands in the basin, he kissed the top of my head, then slipped from the house to attend to a patient of his in the Rhokatis quarter.

When my reflection in the glass seemed presentable to the god, I walked downstairs. Esca, in an old but serviceable chiton of mine, sat on the couch at the front of the _iatreion_ , where I had tried to console his friend Aquila. He looked keen to be leaving the house after more than two full days of confinement, and I didn't blame him; I could examine him again later. I tilted my head at him, and he rose and followed me out the front door. 

We walked southward, up a slight hill. I turned to look over my shoulder to the north-west, across the eastern edge of the Great Harbour, and pointed out to Esca the familiar glow in the distance. This was not the optimal direction from which to behold the fire that burned at the apex of the Pharos and that would soon be banked for the day, yet the massive furnace at the top of the beacon made it visible from here.

Before long we gained the Canopic Way, turned west, and entered the Gate of the Sun. Alexandria's main thoroughfare was already bustling with folk on the way to their work and schoolboys either being accompanied to their lessons by family slaves or running freely down the street. The air was relatively crisp at this hour and this time of year, weighed down neither by hot sun nor by the soot of burning fires, and among the scents it carried was that of freshly baked bread.

I signaled to Esca as we came abreast of a bakery in the Tetrapylon, the long tables outside the shop piled high with fragrant loaves and rolls. The baker's boy, who knew me by sight, greeted me with pleasure and deference, and I smiled at him. Esca looked with undisguised longing at the baker's wares, his nostrils twitching.

"Regaining your appetite?" I said.

"I am, I believe. What do you recommend, _Iatrê_?"

"Everything they bake is excellent, but I myself am partial to the cumin rolls."

He insisted on buying one for me as well as for himself, and we leaned against the wall of the shop, out of the press of the crowd, for a quick breaking of our fast. I have never been much given to florid expressions of ecstasy, especially since I began to live life as Chariton rather than Charis, but a moment of it washed over me as I savoured the roll. I watched Esca begin his own; he stared thoughtfully ahead of himself as he chewed, trying to determine if he liked the taste — cumin could not be plentiful in Britannia, I thought — and finally he nodded in approval.

Next door was a butcher, who also knew me by sight and therefore did not attempt to charge Esca outrageously for a large speckled cock with bands about its beak and feet. Esca held the bird by its legs in his good hand as we continued down the Canopic Way. 

"You look displeased," I said. "Is your captive trying to peck you?"

He grimaced. "I am fine, _Iatrê_. I am simply not very fond of cities. Too many people, too many walls, too many hard surfaces. And too much noise."

I made no reply. I had never lived anywhere but a city. After so many years I could not imagine ever leaving the tumult of colours and odours and sounds, the fierce collisions of cultures and personalities, that made up Alexandria. Even my first home of Ephesus would pale by comparison now. Had I only ever called woodlands and fields and the specks of human settlement among them my home, I thought, I expect I might have felt differently.

At length we came to the Soma Square. The timing was right, I realized. I signaled to Esca to stop, then turned around. He did the same.

Dawn had broken bright and red, and it poured down the Canopic Way like volcanic fire from the Gate of the Sun past where we stood. It washed the buildings in sharp-whetted light, starkly outlined the people in the square and along the street against the buildings and the paving-stones. I stood and drank in the sight like Chian wine; it was one I had seen over and over for fourteen years, and still I was not tired of it.

The beauty of the early light didn't seem lost on Esca; far from it. But whereas it gave me nothing but joy to behold, he gazed upon it with a kind of sadness. Not only was this not his own land, this was not even the same sun that shone upon his own land. The vivid crimson dawn of Alexandria was an utterly alien sort of beauty for him; it gave him no more than a moment's pleasure of the eye before it reminded him that he was far, too far from home.

My heart constricted for him, and softly I said, "Only a short way left to go."

 

For a temple to the god of healing, the Asklepieion of Alexandria is a modest affair, no comparison to the great ones at places such as Epidaurus or Kos. It does not stand very close to the Mouseion, yet the Mouseion overshadows it and always has. The architects of the Asklepieion, not wishing to ire the first Ptolemy Soter by creating an edifice that would compete with his Mouseion or his temples to Serapis and Alexander, chose to make it a small oasis of quiet in the city rather than the usual sprawling complex dominating a hilltop and commanding a spring.

The gate in the wall of the Asklepieion stood open. We entered it, passing through a small garden in which date-palms towered and pink and purple rock-roses gave off their sweet odour.

The Temple itself thrummed quietly, as is its way. A priest sat with a tablet near the entranceway, marking down the name and symptoms of the patient who stood by him; afterward he would hang the tablet on the wall alongside others. More patients bustled in and out of the _naos_ , the inner chamber in which the altar stands. Elsewhere in the Temple, yet more lay in beds, some in the Sacred Hall, or perhaps soaked in baths; others would now be taking exercise in the modest _palaestra_ behind the building.

Humans were not the only source of sound and motion in the Asklepieion. In our sandaled feet, we picked our careful way to the _naos_ across a floor that slithered and hissed, the morning light glistening off thousands of scales in every imaginable shade.

Esca, by contrast, seemed to have lost his own colour again.

"You told me you didn't fear serpents," I said accusingly.

"I imagined a few in cages at the altar," he retorted. "I did _not_ imagine we'd have to step over scores of them!"

"Well, they won't strike at you, unless you step _on_ them rather than over them, and even then you probably won't take ill from it. All serpents are revered here, but only the harmless ones are allowed to roam freely."

He didn't look much comforted at this, but he gamely followed me into the _naos_ , where several other patients lingered. The plinths within fairly groaned under a variety of leavings for the god: coins, green growing branches, jewellery, candles, a few pairs of sandals from those who had made long pilgrimages here, and countless _terra cotta_ votives in the shape of every imaginable part of the human body.

I bought a _popana_ from an acolyte. Then I picked the little cake into pieces and tossed them into the tree that had been planted behind the altar. More serpents coiled round its branches; two lashed out with exquisite timing to snare a bit of _popana_ each.

"Why serpents?" Esca asked me, softly.

"Because what can kill can also, very often, heal," I replied, as softly. "Shall we make the sacrifice?"

He laid the second purchase of our morning on the altar with as much reverence as one can bring to worship of a god not one's own. I stood beside him, holding the bird steady for him, as he took a dagger from the folds of his chiton with his good hand. The cock struggled briefly and went still in my grasp; its blood gouted dark and rank over the altar.

I sank to my knees, then, and I made my prayer. 

"Great Asklepios, son of Apollo, healer of sicknesses, patron of physicians. Regard my suppliant prayer: Help me bring my patients robust health. Help me mitigate their pain and knit their wounds. Help stay deadly pestilence with your gentle hand. And keep me well myself, O Lord, that I might heal all who seek me for many years to come."

I stood again, and I regarded Esca. His expression was closed to me. Then I caught a familiar movement ahead of me, outside of the _naos_ , and I felt a flicker of excited happiness.

"Esca. My old teacher appears to be here, and I would speak with him. Wait here." 

I walked as briskly from the _naos_ as I dared, and I caught up with the tall broad figure before he could stride from the Temple.

_"Quinte! Salve!"_

The shaggy dark head turned, and the craggy face broke into a grin. It was considerably craggier than when last I had seen it, thanks to his fondness for wine. At this hour of the morning the sour hints of last night's indulgence still clung to his breath and clothes.

"Chariton! Pendulous tits of Venus, it's been a while!" With a hearty laugh Quintus closed the space between us and clasped my arm tightly. 

"What are you doing at the Temple so early?" I asked. Continuing to grin at me, he replied, "What are you doing at the Temple so _late_?" 

It was then I noticed the red gash on his forehead. It had been cleaned and possibly dusted with alum, but it still looked appalling.

"Came here straight from the tavern, did you?"

"I did. I went out only for a peaceful night of drinking, Chariton, as ever I do, but I ran into that tiny-cocked fucker of mole rats, Rufus, who cast aspersions on my learning, my practise, and my beloved mother who sleeps under the earth in Rome. Of course I had to teach him a lesson."

"Of course," I echoed diplomatically.

"If you think _this_ looks bad…" He pointed to his forehead and chuckled. "You should have seen Rufus, then."

We commenced to reacquaint ourselves for a short while. As was his wont, he steered the conversation back and forth between solicitous inquiries of myself and mine, astute medical commentary, scurrilous gossip, and obscene jests.

I grinned despite myself. Quintus was the most brilliant anatomist I would ever meet, and a teacher who took the fostering of his pupils' careers deadly seriously. He was also, as he would be the first to tell you, a crass, brawling, drunken swine. Those who met him either loathed him virulently or would follow him to the ends of the earth… though, perhaps, not into taverns. I had always politely declined any and all invitations to his notorious nights of carousal, having heard too many unsavoury stories of how they ended. Last night's dénouement had been a relatively mild one.

At length I said, "One of my patients is here with me, Quintus. His hand was nearly destroyed several days ago by a runaway horse, and I reset the bones. He wished to express his gratitude with a donation; I also suggested he accompany me here and make a sacrifice."

I pointed into the _naos_ ; from where we stood, Esca was visible through the doorway, still standing near the altar. Quintus's gaze lighted on him, and the old drunkard leered. 

"Ooh. His _gratitude_ , eh? He's a pretty one, Chariton. I'm not sure you're equipped for it any longer, but were I in your sandals I could think, right off the top of my head, of three distinct ways I'd have suggested his _gratitude_ be expressed."

I let that pass. Reminding Quintus that, even had I desired such a thing, it would be a violation of my oath would do nothing but encourage further and ever more graphic commentary from him.

"Actually, I had hoped I could ask you to look at my hand-work, there. If you do not feel able to stop yourself from inviting the fellow to come back to your surgery and fondle that dull old lancet of yours, I could simply ask Aristarchos to check my work, as I had planned to anyway."

He scowled at me, only half in earnest. "You've always had a knack for spoiling my fun, Chariton. All right, ask your patient to come here. I will comport myself like every inch the erudite, well-bred gentleman I am."

I snorted. "Wait here."

Esca had not returned our glance back through the entrance to the _naos_. His eyes were taking in all the various and sundry gifts left for the god when I reached him again and touched his arm. 

"Would you care to receive a second opinion from one of Rome's … best-known physicians?" _Most illustrious_ , I thought, was probably a bit much in Quintus's case.

Curiosity glinted in his eyes. I gestured toward my teacher, who gazed with expectant impatience at me from where he still stood near the Temple door. We picked our way across the sea of serpents again, and I made brief introductions. 

Quintus did not stand on ceremony: "Hold out your hand, boy," he said bluntly, and then took it when Esca obeyed. He pressed deft, gentle fingertips into the palm, the back, the wrist. "If I hurt you, tell me."

Esca said nothing, but at one point during Quintus's probing he flinched. The anatomist looked up in annoyance. 

"This isn't a test of your endurance, boy. I asked you to tell me if I cause you pain so that I can assess how your injury heals. Playing the brave warrior wastes my time."

I had been standing by, observing with a neutral expression, awaiting Quintus's pronouncement of the quality of my hand-work a bit nervously. Now I had to suppress a smile as they glowered at one another. I had developed a fair amount of respect, and, perhaps, a bit of liking for my challenging patient, yet it was amusing to watch him try to pit his considerable will against that of Quintus. _He is not going to win this match_ , I thought.

And he did not. Esca sighed and said, "Yes, _Iatrê_ , that last touch was painful."

"Obviously," Quintus muttered, continuing the examination. 

At length he released Esca's hand and said, "Your _iatros_ has done well by you, boy. If you are wise you will continue to take his counsel and let nature do the rest of the work, which will take time."

Esca glared at Quintus again, though more mutedly this time. As for myself, I was aflame with colour and pride.

"Thank you, _didáskalê mou_ , for agreeing to examine him."

He waved a dismissive hand at me. "It took but a few moments, and it is a pleasure to see _cheirourgeía_ done well and healing well. Too many _iatroi_ here are butchers, and in Rome the situation is, if anything, worse."

The mention of Rome reminded me. "Ah — I still have your copy of Martial's work, Quintus. I lent it to this patient two nights ago, to alleviate his boredom."

"Oh?" Turning to Esca again, his expression deceptively mild, he said, "And did you enjoy the refined, high-minded verses of one of Rome's most … widely appreciated poets?"

Esca, of a sudden, grinned. "I did, _Iatrê_. It was … most entertaining."

Quintus, still straight-faced but with a new gleam in his eye, recited: _"Audieris in quo, Flacce, balneo plausum, / Maronis illic esse mentulam scito."_

Esca's grin broadened, and he rejoined: _"Triginta tibi sunt pueri totidemque puellae / Una est nec surgit mentula. Quid facies?"_

Quintus blinked in surprise, then roared with laughter. Esca, still grinning at him, darted a look at me from the periphery of his vision. If he were hoping to discomfit me again, he would be disappointed: I had recovered from the embarrassed surprise caused by Herophilos's choice of book. What's more, I had studied with Quintus for three years. If the old reprobate lacked Martial's finesse with an epigram, he more than equalled the poet's relish of obscenity.

Nonetheless, I did not much care to hear them move on to Labienus's depilatory habits or Lydia's slackness, so I cut in. "If you would care to drop by my _iatreion_ later, Quintus, I can return the book to you."

"Oh, it's not necessary. I've bought another copy," he said. Then suddenly he clapped Esca so hard on the left shoulder that the Briton swayed slightly. "If this one enjoyed the verses so much, send him home with them! A little Roman culture in addition to the legions and the magistrates wouldn't hurt that great frigid cow-byre called Britannia one bit."

Esca was staring at him now, quite forgetting to be insulted. "I thank you, _Iatrê_. That is generous of you."

Quintus waved his hand again. "It is nothing. I take pleasure from passing along knowledge, whether of medicine or of verse."

I spoke with him a few moments longer, inviting him to dine with Aristarchos and me while he remained in the city. He asked if our wine-cellar was full, and when I said it was, he promised me he would. Then he clasped my arm again, jerked his head in acknowledgement at Esca, and turned and left the Temple.

Esca, watching the broad shoulders retreat, whispered, " _That_ is one of Rome's most illustrious physicians?"

"Did I say 'illustrious'? I don't believe I did," I retorted. "Many commendatory adjectives can be applied to Quintus, but that one is not among them."

We departed the Temple ourselves shortly thereafter. I would have happily returned home along the Canopic Way, but the crowds would be greater now. Esca had braved the throngs, the floor of serpents, and Quintus for me this morning; out of kindness, for our return to the _iatreion_ I chose side streets that would be reasonably safe at this hour.

"The book should keep you and your man Aquila entertained on ship, I should think," I said.

Esca gave a snort of amusement. "Aquila? Martial will turn him seven shades of crimson. With that one even the robust sensibilities of a former centurion have their limits." The grin once more returned. "So, naturally, onboard ship I'll vex him from time to time by citing a particularly ripe verse. And, when we've returned home, perhaps I'll contrive to leave the book in a place where his dear wife can find it, and I'll plead neglectfulness when confronted."

I stared at him in bewilderment. "Those are hardly verses fit for the eyes of gentle Roman ladies!"

He threw back his head and laughed until his eyes were wet, leaning against a wall to support himself in the throes of hilarity.

"Aquila's wife is British, not Roman," he finally managed to gasp. "And were I to call her a 'gentle lady' to her face, _Iatrê_ , she would be like to pick me up and throw me down a well. Oh, I imagine she would indeed be scandalised at first, reading those verses. But before long — though I rather doubt she'd do so in my presence — she would delight even more than I will at quoting the filthiest ones to Aquila and watching him colour."

I blinked at him and slowly shook my head. "You hail from a very strange place, _Britannice_."

He scoffed. "Stranger than this one? I think not, _Iatrê_. Alexandria is a fascinating and beautiful city in its own right, I'll own. Hopefully I will tell tales of it to my children and grandchildren, and perhaps I won't exaggerate them terribly. But, in truth? Right now I can't wait to be shut of it."

 

The Roman, Aquila, came to fetch him on the fourth morning. He had been visiting Esca daily, but each time I had been with another patient, either in the _iatreion_ or elsewhere in the city. As I understood, he'd been staying in an inn not far from the Kibotos. Esca would stay there tonight as well, and the next morning they would take sail from the Harbour of Good Return. 

One more time I had examined Esca; one more time he seemed quite whole. I had changed his bandage as well, salving his stitches again before winding the new linen round his hand. Given the paucity of washing-water aboard ships, my suggestion was that he leave it on throughout the sea-voyage. The wounds would be healed by the time they made their final landfall, and a physician in Britannia could then pull out the thread.

When last I had seen Aquila, he had brimmed with all the rage and fear that shock had suppressed in his friend. Now he looked relieved — that his companion would retain the use of his right hand, that they were not too late to leave Egypt for the season, and that, soon enough, he would be reunited with his wife and child.

Seeing Esca in good spirits seemed another balm to him. The Briton walked forward to clasp hands with him, but Aquila balked — "I'll wait 'til your right hand is mended; enough ill luck has befallen us, I think" — and embraced him carefully instead.

I stood by, hands clasped before me, myself brimming with a quiet joy. It was not a joy that Asklepios always saw fit to bestow upon me — like any other _iatros_ , I had buried my share of patients and pronounced others crippled for good. Over the years, I had learned that when he did see fit to finish the job that I'd started, joy was mine to take. Why else should I have chosen this life?

Aquila approached me then, a small coffer in hand.

"Esca has spoken to me about this. I am in agreement with him: we are profoundly in your debt, _Iatrê_ , even if you do not agree. I hope this will suffice to cover our fees and help offset those of at least a few paupers in Alexandria."

I lifted the lid and tried not to gape like a rustic at the contents.

"This… this is immensely generous, _Centurio_. I am not sure I can accept this."

"Oh, yes, you can," he said, the same note of severe command in his voice as when he promised me that Esca would follow my orders. "It may not trouble you to insult the two of us by rejecting it, but in that case you would soon be hearing from a very angry legate in Antinoöpolis. This is his gold. He owes Esca a significant debt of his own, and he would only insist on rewarding you even more richly."

I said nothing for a moment. Then I simply said, "I thank you," and placed the coffer on a table. As I'd said to Esca, Asklepios didn't intend me for a life of ease, but nor would he want me to spurn gifts that I could put to good use in his service.

Aquila clasped my right hand in acknowledgement and farewell.

And then I approached Esca. He gave me a soft, genuine smile, but the blue eyes were unfathomable to me again. 

"Did you remember to pack the book?" I asked.

"Yes, it's in our travel-bags."

"What book is this?" Aquila asked.

"I'll show you later," Esca said.

Rather than jeopardise his right hand or alarm Aquila by clasping his left, I intended to clasp my patient's shoulder instead. Before I could, he surprised me by leaning forward and gently kissing my brow.

Aquila, behind me, laughed. "You take a fancy to eunuchs now, Esca? I'd better get you out of this damned country before you decide we should bring one home with us."

He didn't see me turn red, of course. Esca did, but there was no mockery or even mild teasing in his expression. He said, quietly and with feeling, "Thank you, _Iatrê_."

"You are ever so welcome," I replied, and I smiled the quiet, professional smile of the _iatros_. "All the gods be with you as you make your way home, and long lifetimes of robust health to you and yours."

I watched them walk out the door of my _iatreion_ , then from the window I watched them turn west, toward the harbours. The furnace atop the Pharos burned still, but the dawn had begun to stretch its fiery hand over the city. The brilliant light cast the two of them, the Roman and the Briton, in hard clear outline against the other residences and shops of my street, and it shone brightly upon them until they disappeared entirely from my view.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Bunn for inspiring me to write this fic and for beta'ing it.
> 
> [ _The Beacon at Alexandria_](http://www.amazon.com/Beacon-Alexandria-Hera-Gillian-Bradshaw/dp/1569470103) begins 240 years after _The Eagle/EOT9_ ends. Moving Charis back to Marcus's and Esca's time required me to paganize her and, because there is no Archbishop Athanasios for her to make a name for herself curing, give her a more modest ascent into the ranks of Alexandrian physicians. Not many Goths are in Alexandria at this time, either, so goodbye Athanaric, hello OMC love interest. Her hated ex-fiancé in the book, Festinus, did briefly govern the province of Asia and [is said to have liked hurting people](http://tinyurl.com/d98aw9e). I kept the name but dropped all description of him except that he is Gaulish, fair-colored, powerful, and sadistic.
> 
> Try as I might, I can't fit all my sources into the character limit for end notes, so I'll provide the major ones:
> 
> Quintus of Rome was a celebrated anatomist and physician of the era, with many well-known pupils. I stumbled upon him in [Sir William Smith's _Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology_ , Vol. 3](http://tinyurl.com/c4ulps7); he's also mentioned in [Mattern's _Prince of Medicine: Galen in the Roman Empire_](http://tinyurl.com/dyxlwgc) and [Prioreschi's _A History of Medicine: Roman Medicine_](http://tinyurl.com/d84dqyu). He left no writings of his own, but Galen, who may have been his pupil, called him "the best physician of his time." Galen also paints him as "a vigorous, rough-and-ready man whose patients complained that he stank of wine." Smith's dictionary says Quintus's recorded sayings "show more rudeness than wit, and … are more suitable to a jester than a physician." His professional rivals may have been inflamed as much by his manner as by jealousy: They conspired to trump up charges against him of murdering his patients. He fled Rome, and he died in exile in ~148 CE.
> 
> The surgery Charis performs on Esca's hand is consistent with 1st-c. CE medicine in the Roman Empire. Excellent sources: [WP](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Surgery#History), [Kirkup's _Evolution of Surgical Instruments_](http://tinyurl.com/cwge9tf), and [a 1906 journal article](http://tinyurl.com/cvthq39) about surgical implements found at Pompeii and Herculaneum. [Antisepsis](http://www.mlahanas.de/Greeks/MedicalInstruments.htm) was [practiced](http://jace.myweb.uga.edu/MiboWebsite/MiboWebHist.htm) at that time, as were [abdominal percussion](http://www.antiquemed.com/invention.html) and [uroscopy](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uroscopy) ([more here](http://tinyurl.com/chu5vxx)). 
> 
> My info on Hippocrates is from [Project Gutenberg](http://tinyurl.com/cqhta8p), [the journal _History of Medicine_](http://tinyurl.com/ct8opef), and WP. He [may have auscultated his patients](http://tinyurl.com/cf7q8l6); he also wrote [the first treatise on lymphoid tissue and lymph nodes](http://www.nature.com/leu/journal/v21/n4/full/2404618a.html) and so may have palpated them in patients.
> 
> Details about _iatroi_ come from ["The Iatros" by John Lienhard](http://www.uh.edu/engines/epi1170.htm), [Nancy Day's _Your Travel Guide to Ancient Greece_](http://tinyurl.com/bppp75t), and [Hellenica World](http://www.hellenicaworld.com/Greece/WS/en/Iatros.html). Charis's attendants are named for [two](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herophilos) [anatomists](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erasistratus) of 3rd-century BCE Alexandria.
> 
> By far, WP provided the most details on Asclepius and his cult and temples. More details, particularly about votive offerings, came from [Ár nDraíocht Féin](http://tinyurl.com/cbbpj6b); Charis's prayer is adapted from those at [Theoi.com](http://www.theoi.com/Ouranios/Asklepios.html). I could not find any substantive information about an Asklepieion in Alexandria, but [Aelian](http://www.sacred-texts.com/etc/oph/oph07.htm) claims [one existed](http://www.theoi.com/Cult/AsklepiosCult.html).
> 
> Finally, [this site](http://www.well.com/~aquarius/martial.htm) has English translations of Martial's obscene epigraphs. The one Quintus quotes is 9.33; the one with which Esca replies is 12.86.


End file.
